Dissonance
by Sleeves
Summary: All Craig wants is for Tweek to love him, and all Tweek wants is to be left alone. [Please read warnings.]


_A/N: _**PLEASE READ.** This is not a happy story, or a fun story, and it's certainly not a romance or a love story. It's ugly and violent and you will probably not enjoy it. Warning for gore and severe emotional and physical abuse.

You can probably tell, but every full line break the point of view switches between Tweek and Craig.

* * *

**Dissonance**

—

The phone was ringing again. Tweek hated the phone because it scared him to death. That was why he was hiding in his wardrobe—because the phone was ringing and because the wardrobe was his safe place, the haven that protected him from everything, including the nightmares that lived only in his head.

This included gnomes because, imaginary or not, gnomes were no good at picking locks. They were no longer Tweek's primary fear, although the thought of them still made him shudder. It had started with them stealing his underpants as a child, and then it had gotten progressively worse. Important things would disappear—his medication, his phone, his wallet—and he would panic for hours until his mother or father found whatever had vanished.

They told Tweek that he had misplaced the things himself and that gnomes lived in his brain and weren't real and could never hurt him, but Tweek knew better than anyone that the things inside a human brain can be the scariest of all.

That was why he was hiding in the wardrobe, because his brain knew it was a safe place. It was the one grace his condition allowed him, and it was probably why he was still alive after years of living in jittery paranoia. If Tweek didn't have a safe place, he probably would have killed himself years ago. He was nuts. He knew that—he was crazy. He didn't need a therapist to tell him that.

The wardrobe was dark, and safe, and warm—warm because Tweek was covered with a layer of blankets. Each one was like a protective shell; if one was peeled away it was reinforced by others. No one would touch Tweek while he was in his safe place, surrounded by so many safe things. No one would peel him away from all his layers.

The ringing stopped for a handful of seconds. Tweek listened to the sound of his heart beating in hopeful silence, holding his breath. He exhaled, and it started to ring again.

He knew who was on the other end of the line. It was Craig. Craig always called. Craig always chased Tweek into the wardrobe. Tweek was so afraid of Craig.

But Craig was so nice to him. Tweek couldn't understand the reason why he fled every time the phone rang. He didn't understand the terror that flooded his body with every chilling ring. He only followed its instructions, and its instructions were to run.

But Craig was so kind to him. He would ask, "How was your day, Tweek?" or "You need any help with your homework, Tweek?" or "You drinking coffee right now, Tweek? Of course you are."

And then there was the one that stunned him most of all, the terrible finale of any conversation with Craig—"I love you, Tweek."

Maybe that was why Tweek shrank from any contact with Craig, especially the phone. The phone was all the more terrifying because it had no face to look at, just a disembodied voice whispering terrible things in Tweek's ears.

And there was no real reason for it—Craig was so nice to him. But Tweek never answered his calls. The phone rang and rang, and Tweek stayed locked in the wardrobe, waiting for Craig to go away. He felt terrible ignoring Craig's calls. Craig was so kind to him...

The ringing stopped. This time Tweek counted to sixty before uncurling himself, relaxing the arms that had been wrapped tightly around his legs. He shrugged off his layers of blankets and reached for the latch to let himself out.

It started again. Tweek jumped, hitting his head against the wooden back of the wardrobe. Dizzy and scared, he retreated into his safety zone again, pressing his back against the wood to get as far away from Craig's beckoning ring as possible.

"Leave me alone," Tweek whispered, grabbing fistfuls of straw hair. "Leave me alone..."

—

Two blocks away from Tweek's soft pleading, a boy in an orange parka was hit by a truck. It had been very quick and very painless, although Tweek hardly believed _that_. Quick and painless was an easy thing to say once all the blood had been cleaned off the pavement. People obviously hurt when they were dying.

It was morning, and they were at the funeral. Tweek's tie felt too tight around his neck. He shifted around, fearing suffocation and struggling to quell his building panic. He felt so nervous, he felt like screaming—but he wouldn't do it. He liked Kenny. He didn't want to cause a scene at poor Kenny's funeral.

But he was starting to choke because his tie was too tight.

Now his sleeves were too snug. His hands felt cold. He wondered if the circulation had been cut off in his wrists. He felt like ripping out fistfuls of hair, but instead he curled inward, tugging at his suit and his tie and his cuffs, wanting to jump out of his skin.

They were talking about how Kenny had been a good boy, and that his passing was a great tragedy, and Tweek couldn't listen. It wasn't possible for him to rip at his outfit and cover his ears at the same time—and he was surely choking to death now because he couldn't breathe no matter how hard he tried to get the air down his throat.

So he did what his instincts told him to do, and he ran. He ran across the grass, kicking up dew onto the back of his pants and ruining his shoes with the mud that threatened to suction him to the ground. He ran until he was out of sight, out of view from the graves and plots of new dirt where Kenny was going to sleep, away from everybody who had the capacity to be quiet and respectful at a funeral, people who didn't bend like weeds to their irrational fears. He ran into the trees that surrounded the cemetery, and once his legs disagreed with his brain, he collapsed in a sobbing heap.

Trembling fingers returned to their dutiful position, finding fistfuls of hair to grab. He squeezed his eyes shut and started to cry, dropping his shaking hands to unfasten the tie. It fell into the dirt, as haphazard and twisted up as Tweek himself, whose whole body was quivering with convulsions as he shut his eyes and cried, because Kenny was dead and he was so, so scared.

"Tweek."

Tweek almost choked, even though he'd already discarded the tie that had tried to kill him.

"Why are you crying?"

Tweek couldn't lift his gaze to the face he knew was looking down at him. All he could see out of the corner of his watery eyes was a familiar pair of sneakers. Craig wasn't dressed for a funeral.

"Come on, Tweek. You'll be okay," Craig insisted, trying to prod Tweek into speech. "Why'd you run, Tweek? Why are you crying?"

Because he's my friend, because he's all alone and he'll always be all alone and because when you're dead there's nowhere to go and no wardrobe to hide in and no one to run to, Tweek wanted to say. But he didn't.

When he finally did open his trembling lips, instead of coherent speech, a tortured mix between a whine and a scream came out, a sound a trapped animal might make, a sound that captured all the horrible things Tweek could see and hear, whether they were real or just inside his head. It was a horrible sound, a tormented terrified yell, and it came to an abrupt choked silence only when Tweek felt a hand on his shoulder. When he felt that hand on his shoulder, he was too scared to breathe.

He heard Craig whispering, "Shh Tweek, it's okay. You're okay. Now c'mon. Take your medicine."

Tweek shivered a little. Then he raised his wary eyes to the pills in Craig's hand.

"C'mon, Tweek. It'll be okay."

Tweek, shaking violently and losing focus and lapsing into something terrible, didn't even bother asking why Craig had his medicine because it was supposed to be in his bathroom cabinet. He did, though, through the whir of panic drumming a freakish rhythm against his rib cage, manage to focus his vision briefly on the three pills in Craig's open hand—the wrong color, too—and murmur, "I'm only supposed to take one."

"Shh Tweek. Take your medicine." Craig gently tipped Tweek's head back, met with little resistance from the shuddering blond, and forced the pills down Tweek's throat.

"Go to sleep," Tweek remembered Craig saying as he felt himself fade. "I love you, Tweek. I love you so much."

* * *

Tweek fell asleep very quickly. Perhaps Craig had overdosed him a little, but there wasn't such thing as calming Tweek too much. His tremors subsided and his rigid, frantic body went limp in Craig's arms.

"You feel a lot better now, don't you, Tweek?" Craig said, gazing down at the sleeping blond. "Mmm. I'll always protect you," he said, stroking Tweek's hair. "I'll always save you from yourself, Tweek."

Tweek slept until the sun began to set and the trees turned into long dark shadows all around them. When the sun finally slipped below the horizon, Tweek stirred. His eyes fluttered open, gazing around with a hazy, drugged calmness. Craig thought it was beautiful. He ran his fingertips down Tweek's face and smiled.

Then the glazed-over eyes met Craig's adoring gaze. The peaceful sleepiness vanished, replaced by the usual panicked, wide-eyed stare as Tweek seemed to realize whose arms were cradling him.

"W-where am I? Where are we?" he shrieked, thrashing around. It was painfully easy to pin and hold his Tweek's flailing arms out of the way.

Craig held him like that for a moment, and then relaxed his grip and smiled. "Near the cemetery."

Tweek let out a cry of distress from between his clenched teeth. "You've taken me here to kill me, oh—nngh, oh god! You're gonna murder me! Help, somebody—"

Before the screams could grow too high in pitch and volume, Craig clamped a hand over Tweek's mouth.

"Shh, Tweek," he murmured, taking away his hand when the screams stopped to run his fingers through Tweek's beautiful matted hair. "You're here for the funeral, remember? Kenny's funeral."

Tweek's left eyelid trembled for a brief moment. Then a little sadness crept into his face; he lowered his eyes for a second before they shot up again, studying Craig's face.

"W-well, then what are you here for?"

"I'm here for _you_, Tweek."

Tweek let out another distressed little sound, snatching handfuls of hair and pulling. "I gotta get home, my parents are probably worried—agh—"

He scrambled to his feet, and Craig made no move to stop him. Tweek's eyes darted frantically as his fingers twitched at his sides, grabbing fistfuls of empty air. "I—I gotta go."

He scrambled away, running fast, fast, faster than Craig had ever seen him run. He watched as the small, terrified figure grew smaller and smaller, sprinting between and around the trees. Tweek's small, light body combined with his constant paranoia made him alert and agile, but his tremors made him prone to tripping. It was endearing, the clumsy way he hurtled away from the forest and the cemetery and Craig.

And then he was out of sight. Craig smiled, picking up the discarded black tie from the ground and pressing it to his nose, taking in the lovely smell of dirt and coffee. He held it so close to his face that he thought it might dissolve into his body, and he would have Tweek's coffee and tears inside of his soul.

With that thought filling him up with a happy, dreamy sort of warmth, Craig stood up with the tie clutched tightly in his fist and headed home from the funeral he hadn't been invited to.

—

"Okay class, today I'm going to be assigning you a project."

The entire class groaned. Discontented murmurs sprang up between the desks, but Craig kept silent. He didn't have very many friends to complain to, anyway. That was why Tweek was his best friend. Everyone else had drifted away.

"We've covered a lot of European history so far this year, so you can pick any topic and present what you've learned to the class in the form of a poster, skit, video, or whatever the hell you want to do."

Nobody knew why the fates had stuck them with Mr. Garrison. Every time they moved up a grade, somehow Mr. Garrison would move too, continuing his horrible streak of what could hardly be called teaching. It was like some vengeful god had decided long ago to destroy their education and replace it with lectures about soap operas and celebrities. Nothing made sense in South Park.

Craig pushed a pencil along his desk with the tip of his finger. His eyes flicked to Tweek, giving him a lazy once-over. Tweek was trembling, as always. A project like this—especially involving some sort of presentation in front of the class—was way too much pressure.

"Now this is a two-man project. However, you will _not _be choosing your own partners." Mr. Garrison swept a disapproving glare along the rows of desks. "We all know how well that went last time. I will be assigning you into pairs."

Craig froze, and so did the rest of the class, heavy with unhappy silence. The pencil he had been playing with rolled off the front of his desk and hit the floor. Tweek jumped.

"Okay, Eric is working with Wendy; Butters, you pair with Clyde; Craig, you're with Tweek—"

Craig's heart knocked hard against his ribcage as a thrill of joy spiked his blood temperature. He didn't hear the rest of the assigned pairs Mr. Garrison was rattling off; he didn't need to. All he heard was the soft, sharp, barely audible intake of breath that came from a few desks over.

A delicious shudder ran down Craig's neck and into his spine. Tweek shuddered too, for an entirely different reason, and turned in his seat to stare at Craig with panicked eyes.

Craig smiled at him. Tweek didn't need to look so worried. Craig loved him. Craig would do the whole presentation and Tweek wouldn't have to utter a sound in front of the class in that squeaky, trembling voice.

The pairs had all been assigned and the class erupted into chatter again. Tweek broke his end of the stare, turning back to face the front of the class. Craig watched Tweek's shivering back for several minutes. He knew Tweek could feel the eyes tracing his trembling spine.

Craig smiled an adoring smile at the back of Tweek's head. When Mr. Garrison announced that they had the rest of the period to discuss possible topics with their partners, Craig stood up and sauntered over to the front of the classroom, placing both hands on Tweek's desk and leaning down to the twitching blond.

"Hey Tweek, what do you wanna do for our project?"

Tweek pulled at the buttons on his shirt, emitting a soft groan. "Ahh—I—I don't care! Why—why don't you pick something?"

Craig straightened up, gazing down into Tweek's big, frightened eyes. "I guess I'll have to think about it. Why don't you just come over after school and we can start the project then?"

A spasm ran through Tweek's small body. He gripped at his shirt, turning his knuckles white and making the bones stick out of the backs of his hands.

"Y-your house?"

"Yeah." Craig smiled.

"N-no," Tweek sputtered. "I mean, why don't you come over my house instead? We have c-coffee—and—ugh, other stuff. Important—nnngh, project stuff."

"Sure, Tweek." Craig smiled the reassuring smile that always made Tweek's shakes more frequent and violent. He never understood why. He would never hurt Tweek. "I'll come over after school."

"But my parents don't come home until six!" Tweek let out a long, distressed sound that resembled a cat being murdered as his hands returned to their normal routine of ripping out his hair.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Craig asked. He already knew that Tweek's parents wouldn't be home until much later. He knew everything that went on in Tweek's house.

"Uh—" Tweek frowned, pausing in his hair-pulling to fidget with his buttons. "Never...never mind."

The bell rang, dismissing the class. Tweek grabbed his things and fled. Craig just watched him go, smiling. Craig always smiled around Tweek; he loved Tweek so much.

And now they were partners for the project and he was going to Tweek's house. Tweek invited Craig over to his _house_. It must be karma, Craig thought. He was being rewarded for taking such good care of Tweek in the cemetery.

* * *

Tweek was so scared. Craig's house was terrifying, uncharted territory, but letting Craig into his own house was almost as bad. The way Craig had looked at him in class that day made his stomach turn. He felt like a hunted animal.

But this, of course, was stupid and irrational. Craig was so nice to him. Craig had only ever helped him. He always told Tweek he cared about him. Then _why_, Tweek wondered, did something so deep inside him reject everything that had to do with Craig?

He opened up the pill bottle in the bathroom and took his medication. He was sure Craig had only wanted to help when he slipped Tweek a couple sleeping pills along with his normal medication. It had calmed him down, hadn't it?

No—it had just put him to sleep, and that was something entirely different. Tweek shuddered, heading back to his room to stack the papers and line up the pens and scissors and glue sticks and get everything ready on his desk. Craig would be here soon. He'd gone home after school to gather some things, but any minute, he'd be here.

The doorbell rang and Tweek's hand slipped, knocking down a cup full of pencils.

"Hey, Tweek," Craig said when Tweek answered the door. He walked in with his backpack slung over his shoulder and headed upstairs with Tweek trailing behind. He seemed to know his way around awfully well.

"So I was thinking we could do our project on the Berlin Wall," Craig was saying as they stepped into Tweek's room. "What do you think, Tweek?"

"Erg—sure, we can do our project on that."

"Good." Tweek looked up. Craig was staring at him, looking like a hungry predator. Tweek flinched at his glance and forced a quick excuse to leave the room.

"I'll go get some coffee," he said, fleeing the scene with Craig's eyes on him the whole time. That piercing gray-blue stare belonged to some kind of cold, evil animal, not an empathetic, understanding human. Tweek shuddered. All the way down the stairs he felt very tangible chills down his back. It was like Craig was following him, stroking Tweek's spine with a spindly, invisible hand.

Tweek took his time, making the coffee to calm himself down—but not too much time. He didn't want to keep Craig waiting.

He climbed the stairs slowly, balancing the two mugs in tight, shaky fists. Coffee spilled over the rims with every sporadic jerk of his fingers, burning Tweek's hands and making them shake even more. When he reached his room and placed the precious mugs on his desk, Craig was already hard at work, lying on Tweek's floor with papers scattered around him.

"Hey Tweek," he murmured, not looking up. Tweek jumped. He didn't think Craig had noticed him entering the room.

"I—I brought you some coffee—nnh—too," Tweek said, trembling beside the desk. He tangled his burned, wet fingers in the folds of his shirt.

"Mm." Craig scribbled something into his notebook. "I printed some pictures at my house before I came over. I was thinking we could cut them out and make a poster kind of thing."

"Okay," Tweek said.

"In my backpack," Craig instructed. "The pictures are in a folder with my other history notes. Cut those out, okay, Tweek?"

Tweek nodded, rifling through Craig's bag until he found the folder. It shook in his small, trembling hands, and with one last look down at Craig, he sat down at his desk, picked up the scissors, and began to cut out the pictures.

This was fine with him, although he wasn't much good at cutting. If Craig wanted to do all the real work, Tweek knew better than to argue, even though the situation nagged at his conscience a bit. His hands were unsteady and often made jagged cuts where they weren't supposed to go.

"Don't play with scissors, Tweek," his mother always said. "They're dangerous because of your ADD."

Tweek didn't have ADD—he knew _that_. If it was just ADD he wouldn't hide from invisible demons inside a wardrobe and visit a therapist once a week. But his mother was right about one thing—his jitters made handling scissors painfully difficult. He was tense at first, making little noises when he messed up along the edges.

But to Tweek's relief, he and Craig lapsed into a comfortable silence. The only sounds in the room were the slice of scissors through paper and the turning of pages, coupled with the occasional suppressed grunt from Tweek. He drank his coffee and calmed himself down and finished cutting out a photograph of the Berlin Wall.

The next picture he picked up showed a group of happy people defacing the wall and climbing over it. He cut along the edges as best as he could and set it in the stack of finished pictures. A paper cutter would make this a whole lot easier, Tweek thought, but the blade—the blade scared him to death.

He still felt bad having Craig do all the real work, but Craig seemed happy to do it, and Tweek was afraid to break the quiet understanding that had settled between them. He took a long gulp of coffee and picked up the next photograph.

The cutting was going fine, to Tweek's incredible relief, until the second-to-last picture. It was a map of Germany with a dotted line through the middle, separating the East and West. Tweek steadied his shaking hands and cut as carefully as he could along the edge, but this time his wrist gave a violent twitch, snapping the scissors shut at an erratic and unfortunate angle, slicing through the dotted Berlin Wall and the soft skin of Tweek's opposite index finger.

"Aaaugh! _Ouch!_" Tweek squealed, more out of surprise than pain, dropping the ruined picture and the scissors. He seized his wrist and brought his trembling hand between his eyes. A drop of blood beaded at the slit in his finger and dribbled down his chalky skin.

Craig was at his side in an instant, which further increased Tweek's panic and the speed at which his heart was knocking against his ribcage. The initial shock was gone, but Craig's too-close presence sent a shiver of fear through him.

"Tweek. Are you okay?" Craig's voice was demanding and feverish in Tweek's ear.

"I—I'm okay," Tweek echoed. He could barely feel the pain in his finger anymore.

Craig snatched Tweek's wrist, bringing the bleeding finger close to his face. Craig's lips twitched, and Tweek was seized by the sickening thought that Craig was going to suck out the blood.

"You're bleeding," Craig said, his voice soft and his eyes misted over with something Tweek couldn't read. He might have been speaking to a wounded animal.

"Just a little," Tweek squeaked, glancing down at the cut and then back up at Craig. Something in Craig's eyes caught Tweek's gaze and held it there. Tweek felt his breath catch in his throat.

"You're bleeding," Craig said again, softer than before but twice as urgent. He reached for the discarded scissors. Tweek hardly noticed.

"You're hurt, Tweek," Craig breathed, turning Tweek's shaking hand to the side, exposing the clean pale flesh on the underside of Tweek's forearm. The veins stuck out like purple wires against Tweek's taut, papery skin.

"You're hurt," he said again. The grip around Tweek's wrist tightened.

"I'm not," Tweek insisted, shaking harder than ever. "Craig, come on. We've gotta do this project."

"You're hurt, Tweek. You're bleeding, you poor thing. You're bleeding all over the place," Craig whispered. The grip around Tweek's wrist was cutting off circulation to his hand. He felt very cold. His pulse throbbed in his arm.

"Craig, there's nothing wrong. Let's just do the project." The stutters and grunts worked in reverse when Tweek hit a certain limit; his speech was more coherent than usual, which meant he was terrified beyond measure.

"Look at you, Tweek," Craig whispered. Cold metal touched the soft, exposed skin of his arm. "You're bleeding all over the place."

_The scissors—_

Craig cut him open. He dug the blade into the skin and dragged the edge halfway down the length of Tweek's arm, bringing with it a hot line of pain. The scissor blade didn't cut like a knife—instead it dug like a spade, leaving a trench in Tweek's flesh from the base of his wrist to the bend of his arm.

Tweek screamed—the shock and blinding pain released together in an earsplitting agonized screech—and suddenly there was blood everywhere—on his hands, on his legs, his stomach, in his eyes, and all over Craig. All he could hear were his own screams ringing in his ears; it hurt, it _hurt_, he was going to have one arm for the rest of his life—_no_, he was going to die—oh, god, he wanted to die—it _hurt_, oh please please, _someone kill me—_

"Tweek," the voice whispered in his ear. "See, you're hurt."

Tweek blinked through the blindfold of tears and red pain, and as if the sensation of the erupting, gaping gash in his arm wasn't enough, the sight of it wrenched his stomach. He turned to vomit, but Craig's voice again in his ear froze every bodily function except the blood pulsing from the trench in his arm.

"I'll take care of you," it said.

The bile caught in Tweek's throat and refused to come. Between frantic breaths, he wheezed, "Craig—I need to go to a hospital—augh, _god_!"

"I'm always here to save you, Tweek," Craig whispered, clutching Tweek's arm like a precious relic. "You go and hurt yourself like that, and I'm always here to save you. Aren't you so lucky?"

Kill me, Tweek wanted to say, feeling faint. Kill me, please, just _kill me_.

The sound of ripping fabric barely registered until pressure against his open wound registered in every spastic pain node in his body. He didn't need a makeshift tourniquet to prolong his dying experience. Tweek closed his eyes and tried to kill himself inside his head—go to sleep, make it stop. Please make it stop. Go to sleep.

Tweek passed out just as a voice told him "I love you so much, Tweek." He wasn't sure if it was Craig or god or his own screwy brain where all the right wires were in all the wrong circuits.

The next time he heard those words was in the hospital room where he woke up, dazed, confused, pained, and very much alive.

* * *

After a long, long sleep, Tweek was finally opening his eyes. He looked around, his lids heavy with sleep and sedatives. He was beautiful.

"Hey, Tweek," Craig murmured, affectionately stroking Tweek's hair. There were clumps of blood still left in it—there was blood everywhere. While Tweek was asleep Craig had dabbed away most of the dried blood with a washcloth—off his face, off his hands—but there were still reminders, like the machine Tweek was hooked up to and the huge expanse of bandage and gauze on Tweek's left arm, and the fact that Tweek was sitting completely still.

"How are you feeling?" Craig asked, withdrawing his hand and leaning back to get a full look at Tweek.

"You tried to kill me," Tweek said, looking at Craig through hooded eyes. His voice was scratchy and thin.

"No, Tweek. I saved you." Craig reached out, winding his fingers around Tweek's uninjured hand. "I wouldn't kill you. I love you so much."

"Stop saying that," Tweek said, his gaze losing focus. He was looking at the ceiling, not at Craig. "Where are my mom and dad?"

"They're asleep in the waiting room." Craig brushed his thumb against the skin of Tweek's hand back and forth, stroking gently. "It's two in the morning."

"It is?"

The door opened and a nurse stepped in. Tweek didn't even blink. Craig knew he'd been drugged out of his mind to numb the pain.

"How are you feeling, Tweek?" the nurse asked.

"I'm okay, I guess," Tweek said, regarding her with his drowsy stare. "Am I in the hospital?"

"Yes. You're lucky, Tweek. This boy saved your life."

Tweek turned his eyes to Craig, who gave him a reassuring smile.

"He did?"

"You nearly died of blood loss. He called right away and we were able to get you here in time. You're lucky Craig's Type O negative. You lost a lot of blood, hon."

Tweek's head lolled to the side, his mouth open slightly.

"You've got a great friend, Tweek," the nurse said, changing the bandage around Tweek's arm as the blond gazed at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. "He's been up for hours watching over you."

Tweek's hazy stare drifted to Craig. Craig smiled again, weak with paleness and glee because of all the blood drained from him and put inside Tweek. He would have given all the blood in the world to save Tweek. He would have bled himself into an empty white shell for Tweek. He squeezed Tweek's hand. Tweek whimpered.

"You scared me, Tweek," Craig said.

"Once you're all better your parents want you to go see your therapist right away," the nurse said in a kind, concerned murmur. "They wanted me to let you know that it's all going to be okay and that she'll be able to help you."

"Why?" Tweek asked, his head tipping sideways as if gravity was stronger than his neck muscles.

"Well, whatever you're going through, we're all here to help you, honey. Your therapist just wants to talk about, well, why you did it."

"Did _what_?" A bit of the usual panicked screechiness was creeping back into Tweek's voice.

"Tried to kill yourself," the nurse said, looking very sorry for him.

Tweek's mouth fell open and his eyes snapped instantly to Craig.

"But I—I—" Tweek's eyes darted from the nurse to Craig and back again.

"You just get some sleep, honey," the nurse said, injecting him with painkiller that brought on another visible wave of wooziness and sleep. "Let's leave Tweek alone for a bit."

"Kay." Craig smiled down at Tweek, giving his hand one last squeeze. "Bye, Tweek. I love you," he murmured, and then he followed the nurse out.

Craig shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, touching it with his fingertips and tipping his head back against the hard wood, breathing in Tweek's silence for a sweet, wonderful moment before leaving his beautiful blond companion to rest.

* * *

As Craig left, Tweek glanced down at his arm. It was encompassed in a gigantic bandage complete with fresh white gauze—but he'd seen the horrible bloody coverings the nurse had removed, and it was enough to make him sick. Then he saw the Red Racer band-aid around his index finger, and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Tweek was sick of people telling him he was lucky.

The next day, he went to see his therapist, Mrs. Henderson.

"It's nice to see you again, Tweek," she said. Tweek fidgeted with the bandage around his arm.

Mrs. Henderson was a nice lady, but he felt ashamed to have the attempted suicide label hanging over his head. He would set things straight today. He would tell her what really happened.

"How's school going?"

"Fine."

"What about at home? Are you having trouble with your parents?"

"No."

"You still hang out with Clyde and Token?"

"Yes!" Tweek said very quickly. "Er—well, sometimes. Yes."

"Then what's bothering you, Tweek?" she asked, peering at him in a curious motherly way over the rims of her glasses.

"I... I didn't do it," Tweek said softly.

"What's that, Tweek?"

"I—nnh—I didn't do it! I didn't try to kill myself!" Tweek screeched, letting out all his frustration from the previous days, all the times he had opened his eyes in the hospital and seen Craig smiling down at him.

Mrs. Henderson looked skeptical. "Tweek...it's all right. Remember, you can tell me anything."

"I—_am_—telling you!" Tweek shouted, standing up because he was shaking all over. "It was Craig! I swear to god!"

"Craig?" she echoed.

"Yes! It's Craig! He doesn't stop calling me and he fed me too many pills in the cemetery—"

"You overdosed on your medication?"

Tweek ignored her. "—and he came over because we had to work on a project and I was cutting things and I cut my finger and he saw the blood, and he took the scissors saying 'Tweek, Tweek, look, you're bleeding, Tweek!' and he took the scissors and sliced me open and the blood went everywhere, oh god—" He shuddered. "God, he's trying to kill me!"

"You spend a lot of time with Craig?"

"He's _everywhere_," Tweek said through clenched teeth. "He probably followed me here, he's probably—nngh—probably right outside this door."

"Tweek, I'm going to see if the doctor will recommend some medication, okay?"

"No, I'm serious!" Tweek cried, ripping at his hair. "I don't need medication, I need _help_!"

"Tweek," Mrs. Henderson said gently. "You know sometimes how your brain makes up things that aren't real?"

"I know—rrgh, but Craig is real! I've known him since preschool—I can feel him when he touches me—he—nngh—he gave his blood to me while I was in the hospital!"

"Well, Tweek," she said after a moment, "it's quite possible that your mind invents these different circumstances when you harm yourself, providing an excuse for your behavior by making up a story that you really believe to clear your conscience. It's possible that these times you say Craig has hurt you could very well be you hurting yourself."

This was something Tweek had not expected to hear. He thought back to the cemetery—had he been alone with a bottle of pills? In his bedroom—he swore he could feel Craig breathing down his neck, feel the hard grip around his wrist as a cruel hand slashed open his arm. Whose hand had it been, really?

"Craig's hand," Tweek whispered, touching the wrappings around his arm, then brushing his fingers along the Red Racer band-aid. "Craig was there—he was _there_—I know I'm—gah—I'm crazy, but it was Craig, Craig did it, I swear to god I'm not making it up!"

"Tweek," Mrs. Henderson said, gently patting his good arm. "It seems like this Craig boy cares for you very much. You said you've known each other since preschool. Why on earth would he want to hurt you?"

"I don't know," Tweek murmured, pressing his palms over his eyes and leaning forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. "He's so nice to me—maybe I'm just crazy. I hate that I'm crazy—I hate my brain—I hate being like this!"

"It's all right, Tweek," she said. "Let's get you some medication, okay? It's going to be all right."

He hated when people told him to take his medicine, as if it really made the demons go away, as if he didn't still hide from his fears in a wardrobe. He hated being treated like a little kid with night terrors.

Tweek was quiet during the car ride home.

"We're going to get you some new medication," his mother said. "Mrs. Henderson says it will help with your depression."

"I'm not depressed," Tweek told her. He knew it was useless. Nobody believed him.

"Sweetie, we're only looking out for your best interests."

End of conversation.

—

As soon as they got home Tweek went to his room to think. He curled up on his bed and took his medicine like a good boy—a double dose of his usual medication to stop his brain from lying to him all the time.

He dangled his legs off the side of his bed, sulking a little. He was _not _depressed. Glancing over at his desk, he noticed that all the blood had been cleaned up—off the floor, off the desk. The scissors were gone. It was almost as if they had never been there, never been dug into his flesh and his veins, into that awful bloody trench.

Tweek shivered. It was almost as if the whole thing had occurred all in his head. His hand drifted to the wrappings around his left arm, and then to the Red Racer band-aid encircling his finger. He still hadn't taken if off. Tweek didn't know if it was fear of Craig's potential reaction to its absence or something else that prevented him from removing it.

He closed his eyes and ran his fingers over it, trying to slip into a calm trance as he did his breathing exercises. The house was quiet; his father was working in the coffee shop and his mother was out getting groceries. The silence helped him calm himself into deep, even breathing. No one could hurt him here. He was safe at home, alone, locked in his room and cooperating with his own brain for a rare moment through meds and breathing exercises.

Then the phone rang. Tweek screamed and ran to the only real safe place in the world. He locked the wardrobe doors tightly shut, shoved his palms against his ears and listened to the thudding of his own heart and the muted ringing of the telephone, all the while praying for Craig to leave him alone.

* * *

Craig held the phone like it was something precious, smiling a faint, slim smile at the walls of his bedroom. He wanted to hear Tweek's voice and all its fine little quivers and jerks. Calling Tweek was always a useless thing, Craig knew, but he always tried. The first call, of course, was fruitless. But he tried again. And again.

He readied himself for the disappointing sound of the answering machine once more, but then something miraculous happened.

The ringing stopped, and Craig heard his favorite person in the whole world draw a shuddering breath from the other end of the line.

"Tweek?"

Tweek made a little noise of distress.

"Tweek, it's me," Craig said, slumping into a more comfortable position on his bed.

"C-Craig."

Craig let out a shuddery little sigh. The sound of his name passing through Tweek's lips stroked him just the right way.

"Yeah, Tweek?" Craig murmured, closing his eyes and imagining Tweek into the room with him.

"It's—ah—it's you."

"Mhm." Craig smiled, worshipping Tweek's weird little tics. Tweek was nervous. Craig imagined him tugging at the buttons of his shirt and sighed.

For a blissful minute, Craig listened in rapturous silence to Tweek's shuddery breathing on the other end of the line. Then Tweek, skittish and needing to break the silence, choked out, "W-well?"

"Well what?" Craig asked.

"Well what—erk—what do you want?" Tweek almost screamed, tortured—Craig knew—by the suspense. "I mean why—augh—why did you—nnn—call me?"

"How's your arm?" Craig asked, tracing a line along his own unmarked forearm with his nail.

Tweek was silent for a moment.

"It... It's okay I guess." Tweek sounded subdued, almost sad. After a pause, he added, "Craig? I—I wanna know..."

"Yes, Tweek?" Craig murmured.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Cut me." Even clinging to every word, Craig barely caught the shuddery whisper.

"Tweek," Craig said gently, running his forefinger over the dot on his arm. That was there they had taken the blood from him, the blood all for Tweek, his precious, dying Tweek. "That was you. You lost it and tried to kill yourself."

Tweek was making soft desperate sounds, half-formed sentences as Craig waited patiently. Finally, Tweek asked in a low, anxious voice, "Craig? Do you love me?"

"Yes," Craig whispered, clutching the phone tighter. "God, yes, Tweek."

Tweek's voice was suddenly confident, no stutters or random interjections.

"Then tell the truth."

"I am," Craig said, smiling into the receiver. "Don't think too hard about it, Tweek, all right? You might get upset. You might, you know... I would never want to lose you, Tweek."

Tweek let out a strangled gasp.

"I love you, Tweek," Craig whispered, dragging his thumbnail over the soft skin of his forearm.

But Tweek had already hung up.

* * *

"I'm not crazy," Tweek whispered, curling up under his blanket. Not _this _crazy. He knew Craig had done it, he knew Craig was threatening him and using passive-aggressive mind tricks and reverse psychology and all sorts of other things to trick him, and he knew there was no way out of this awful trap.

He _knew _he was right where Craig wanted him, and that he was just following the master plan like a rat in a maze, a paranoid, scared, delusional rat who knew exactly what was going on. Craig was going to land him in a mental hospital for good—one of those big locked-up ones with no windows where they only sent the criminally insane—but Tweek wasn't crazy, not Tweek—it was Craig—Craig was out of his mind. Craig had cut him up with a pair of scissors.

Tweek groaned, rolling over and tangling himself up in the sheets. He was delusional, paranoid, schizophrenic—whatever the professionals wanted to call it—and Craig was the good boy who had always taken care of him with an air of loving worship. No one would lock _Craig _up. There was no escape, no way out, nothing Tweek could do to save himself from whatever fate Craig wanted for him.

_Kill myself._

Tweek yelped, snatching at his hair. No, no, he wouldn't. Everybody already thought he'd tried to kill himself before. That was exactly what he _wouldn't _do.

_Kill Craig._

Tweek's shaky hands slowly withdrew, releasing the tufts of hair he'd been grabbing.

No, no, he couldn't do that—that would certainly get him locked up. That would be no better than what Craig had done—that would be worse, that would be murder, that would be killing his only friend, his best friend, someone who really cared for him. Tweek liked Craig—he really did—no matter how much the dark-haired boy scared him. Maybe that was the most important part. He really liked Craig.

_Kill Craig._

Tweek's hands returned to their former position, squeezing the life out of his hair.

"No."

God damn everything Craig had ever done for him, every time Craig had smiled at him and said "I love you, Tweek" and made him feel warm and happy and terrified and revolted all at the same time. He really liked Craig.

That was the worst part.

—

No one ever asked Tweek why he'd missed several days of school. The only person who cared already knew. He came in late, missing homeroom, but he made it to Biology on time. He dropped his bag on the floor and rested his head on the stack of books he'd plopped on his desk.

"Hey, Tweek."

Tweek's head jerked up on command. There was Craig, looking down at him with all the usual undying predatory devotion in his eyes.

"H-hi, Craig," Tweek replied. His hands were shaking, and before he could panic or move or even blink, Craig's arm shot out and snatched Tweek's left hand.

Tweek froze. Craig brought Tweek's hand up to inspect it. He rubbed a finger over the Red Racer band-aid and smiled, releasing Tweek's hand.

"I love you so much, Tweek."

Tweek felt like crying. The merciful school bell rang, saving him, and Craig returned to his seat. Tweek spent the whole class touching the band-aid on his finger and feeling Craig's eyes on him. Craig cared for him. Craig was so kind to him. Craig said "I love you" more frequently than Tweek's parents did. Craig was around more than Tweek's parents were. But still Tweek couldn't ignore the creeping paranoia, that invisible hand extending from Craig's eyes.

He couldn't be crazy. Craig's voice, his hands burning on Tweek's skin, the strong unwavering drag of scissors into Tweek's arm—his brain couldn't have made all that up. The psychologists were the ones who didn't have a clue what was going on. They'd never give him the real help he needed.

He didn't hear a word of Biology, too immersed in his own thoughts and nervous under Craig's gaze to think of much else.

* * *

Tweek looked so sad at lunch. It wounded Craig to see him like that, so Craig dropped his lunch tray in the spot across from Tweek, who jumped at the sound of plastic hitting the table. Craig smiled at Tweek, sitting down across from him.

Tweek said nothing.

"Eat," Craig said, noticing Tweek hadn't touched his food.

Tweek obediently picked up his fork and shoveled his peas around, directing his mournful gaze down at them.

"That's not eating," Craig told him. "You want my pudding? It's chocolate."

"I don't like pudding," Tweek said, avoiding eye contact as he prodded his peas.

"Don't lie to me," Craig commanded, making Tweek flinch.

Tweek's fork stopped, quivered, and then fell from his hand. Craig watched him closely, examining him, reading him, loving him.

"Lying... It's your rule, C-Craig," he said, very softly, gazing down at his Salisbury steak and peas. "Lying is allowed in this—game."

"What?"

"I don't want to play anymore," Tweek said suddenly, looking up at him and making a face as if he was thinking very hard. "Just—nnh—tell me what you want from me. Please, Craig. I'm serious."

"I don't want anything from you," Craig said, willing him to understand.

"Then why did you do this to me?" Tweek rolled up his sleeve, revealing his enormous gauze shell. It looked like he was struggling hard to keep the tremors out of his voice. "Why are you screwing with me?"

"When will you understand, Tweek?" Craig asked, desperate, feeling as if someone was stepping on his chest.

Tweek just stared at him.

"Hey, do you want my pudding or not?" Craig scooped up a spoonful, offering it across the table. "I know you like pudding."

* * *

"He's trying to make me crazy. He's trying to drive me _insane_," Tweek screeched, grating the last word out through clenched teeth. He was pacing his room, clinging to sprigs of his own hair like little lifelines. "I'm already crazy enough—why can't he just leave me alone—agh!" He jerked on his hair, tearing out little blond strands which he looked at in horrified silence for a second before shrieking and letting them go.

He gazed down at his trembling hands and his eyes immediately gravitated to the Red Racer band-aid around his finger. The cut had all but vanished completely, but the band-aid was the worst reminder of what had happened that day. Not even the sight of the huge bandage around his arm wrenched his stomach like the band-aid did.

"I love you, Tweek" suddenly echoed in his ears and his eyes caught the thing around his finger. He couldn't tell whether Craig's voice was real or all in his head, whether that thing was a band-aid or a shackle. With a swift jerk, Tweek ripped the thing from his skin. It fluttered to the floor as he watched in absolute, terrified silence.

—

Tweek was extra jittery in school the next day. He hid his hands in his lap, afraid Craig would see his bare index finger. With a sudden, stunned jolt enlightenment, Tweek realized he wasn't afraid of Craig hurting him for its absence—he was afraid of hurting Craig's feelings.

"Insane. This is in_sane_," Tweek murmured to himself, fidgeting in his chair.

And suddenly Craig was there, like he'd been the day before, and like lightning he snatched up Tweek's jittery hand and examined the index finger. His eyes slid to Tweek's face and he smiled, rubbing his finger gently over Tweek's.

"I love you so much, Tweek."

Then stop making me crazy, Tweek wanted to say. But his lips trembled and were silent under Craig's stare. The way Craig was looking at him—completely _enthralled_, it seemed, by the details of Tweek's face—made him squirm. The school bell came to his rescue again, pulling those beautiful terrifying Craig-eyes away from him as he jumped out of his seat and scrambled for the homeroom door.

But those eyes followed him even when Craig wasn't looking. They haunted him all day, predatory and hungry and more strikingly beautiful than Tweek ever remembered them being.

—

Tweek's favorite class was Math because he was very good at it. Numbers were solid and friendly and always consistent, always making sense. But not even math class could smooth his nerves today, and even though Craig wasn't in his math class, Tweek felt him the whole time, whispering to him and breathing down his neck with a pair of scissors in his hand and his eyes always, always on Tweek.

* * *

Poor Tweek had gone tearing off that morning as if he'd been set on fire. It was one of his attractive quirks, but his odd little habits and bouts of paranoia worried Craig too. Tweek seemed to be afraid of everything, including Craig, but that part didn't upset Craig at all. He would make Tweek understand, sooner or later.

He watched over Tweek more than anybody else in the world. He knew how Tweek's brain worked. He'd experimented with drugs, forcing hallucinations upon himself to see what Tweek's brain disease made _him _see. Tweek claimed to just have ADD, but Craig knew better. Hours of research had taught him to know better. Tweek was very, very sick, and Craig loved him. It was Craig's job to save him. Craig had saved him so many times.

He stroked the scissors in his pocket and tuned out his English teacher and thought about how he would make everything good for Tweek, if only Tweek could learn to understand.

* * *

Tweek learned to fear a different sound that week, far more terrifying than the ring of the telephone. It was the sound of the doorbell that shocked him out of doing his math homework. It was a strange sound, the ringing of the doorbell. No one ever came calling to the Tweek household, probably because Tweek didn't have very many friends.

He went downstairs, taking softer steps as he closed the distance between himself and the door. He peered through the peephole and immediately reeled back as if he'd been struck across the face. It was Craig—of course it was Craig, smiling with reverence at the front door.

Tweek slumped to the floor with his back to the door, hugging his knees to his chest and trembling. Just don't answer it, he told himself, staring straight ahead with terror in his eyes. Just pretend no one's home.

"Tweek," Craig said, and Tweek grew very still. "Come out, Tweek."

Why are you here, Tweek wanted to yell at him. Why won't you leave me alone?

"Tweek," Craig said softly, almost pleading. He knocked this time, a soft sound deafening to Tweek's hypersensitive ears. "I want to talk to you."

I don't want to talk to _you_, Tweek wished he could scream. I don't want to see _you_.

There was a long silence, and Craig sighed, murmuring something so soft Tweek didn't know if Craig had actually spoken or if he had just imagined it.

"Tweek," Craig said, as quiet as the thudding heart in Tweek's chest. "You talk to me when you're ready."

The crunch of sneakers on snow led Craig away, and Tweek let out the breath he had been holding in the whole time. He stayed huddled on the floor for several minutes before gathering his courage and standing to peek outside.

The doorstep was empty. Tweek exhaled his relief and touched the place where his throbbing heart drummed against his ribs, praying for this to never happen again. He didn't know how much of Craig's presence his fluttering heart could take. Tweek was sure to die of a heart attack one of these days. This much pressure was so unhealthy for him, so he shuffled into the kitchen and downed four cups of coffee till he was shaking too hard to think about Craig, shaking too hard to think about how the dark-haired boy was out to get him, closing in too fast for Tweek to think or run.

—

Tweek drummed nervous fingers on his homeroom desk the next morning, trembling a little. Why did they have to alphabetize homerooms anyway? Why not mix it up for just one year? Why did fate place Tweak right after Tucker on the attendance list?

But Craig didn't approach him in homeroom. Tweek's eyes snapped over, his suspicion spiking as Craig seated himself a good distance away and didn't even glance over.

Tweek guessed Craig wanted to talk to him in private. He guessed Craig would show up at his house again that afternoon, and he was right. When the chilling echo of the doorbell rang through the house, he peered out his bedroom window overlooking the front door and saw Craig on the doorstep.

Tweek jumped away from the window, praying Craig hadn't seen him, and huddled in his safe, safe wardrobe until he was sure Craig was gone.

* * *

"You'll understand soon, Tweek," Craig murmured from the doorstep, grabbing at the scissors in his pocket, grinding the blades against his fingers. "Once you talk to me you'll understand."

He smiled at Tweek's terrified face in the upstairs window. "Once you come around, Tweek...you'll be so happy."

He turned and crunched through the snow, clenching and unclenching his hand to spread the sticky blood around his skin, nowhere near as slick and delicious as Tweek's had felt. He ground the dried flakes of Tweek's blood that lined the scissor blades into his own skin and sighed.

Once you stop running, once you finally give up, you'll understand. And I'll save you, and you'll love me as much as I love you, Craig thought, smiling into the pain pulsing through his sliced fingers.

I can play this game forever.

—

He came again and again, always knowing Tweek was home, always knowing Tweek was hiding. He returned home after another unsuccessful outing on a Friday two weeks later, smiling to himself. He knew Tweek's nerves were in a spastic knot, about to snap—and he was right. He knew Tweek better than he knew himself. Tweek was more important than Craig. Tweek was more precious than Craig.

Craig settled onto his couch and took up his carving knife and the block of wood he'd been working on. This was a hobby of his, a way of slipping into calm hypnosis as he shaved off bits of wood to make little masterpieces. The knife pricked his finger, skating off the wood, and he sighed. Blood reminded him of Tweek. Tweek was always so alive, so full of blood.

The doorbell rang.

Craig tensed, his eyes snapping to the door. Perhaps, perhaps finally...

He opened the door, locking eyes with the love of his life and feeling his heart melt right under his skin.

"Tweek," he breathed.

Tweek shuffled his feet. "Erh... I think—I think we should talk."

His eyes caught the carving knife in Craig's hand, and it was all over. Tweek froze, then stumbled back a half-step, screamed, and ran.

"Tweek," Craig wheezed, his veins hurting with the ferocity of the blood pumping through them. "This is it, this is it, Tweek," he breathed, aroused and fervent, squeezing the knife hard and giving chase.

"Tweek, Tweek, _Tweek_," he cried, sprinting through the snow after the fleeing blond, loving the name on his tongue. He laughed into the cold air, the breath whipped from his lungs in a frosty cloud. This was the best moment of his life, this chase, the terror he felt radiating from the warm body running from him and the power he felt emanating from his own. This was why he was alive, to live for Tweek, to love Tweek. This erotic burning in his gut was his reason for living.

He hadn't had the time to put on his shoes, and the feel of the freezing snow under his bare feet made Craig feel more alive than ever. He was bigger and stronger and faster than Tweek, whose scrawny build set him at a distinct disadvantage despite his agility. Even with the head start Tweek would lose. There was nowhere to run in South Park.

They were racing by the old elementary school now, the gap between them closing. Some kid had tried to burn it down a few years back, and no one had bothered to remove the charred remains of the half-destroyed building. South Park Elementary had been rebuilt elsewhere. No one acknowledged this place. People pretended it didn't exist.

What a perfect place Tweek had chosen, Craig thought, shivering with glee. This was where he and Tweek had spent their elementary years together. The only thing left intact was the snow-covered playground. This place was perfect.

Craig was closing now, narrowing the distance between them exponentially as Tweek stumbled in his blind panic. He hit the fence surrounding the old playground and spun around, staring terrified at Craig.

Craig slowed to a walk, approaching Tweek with his empty hand out, palm up. "Come here, Tweek. Stop running. There's nowhere left to go."

Tweek stared, his soft mouth hanging open and frail chest heaving, and shook his head. With speed and strength Craig didn't know Tweek had, the blond snatched the chain-links and began to climb the fence with the dexterity of a monkey, jumping over the top and into the playground.

Tweek may have had abilities that didn't normally belong to him because he was scared, but Craig was driven by love and the exhilarating high of the chase. He scaled the fence, the carving knife still clutched in his hand, and dropped into the playground after Tweek, who was tearing off through the snow again to the other side of the playground.

But Craig was right on him now. He could hear Tweek's ragged, panicked breathing. He reached out with his fingers stretching and grabbed the back of Tweek's shirt, jerking the blond to a halt. Tweek heaved a shuddery gasp and went limp, trembling uncontrollably, and it was over—it was all over, finally, finally...

* * *

Craig guided Tweek's body into an about-face, and Tweek let him. There was no use in struggling anymore. Tweek's eyes snapped to the knife in Craig's hand right away.

"Tweek," Craig murmured, "Tweek, calm down."

Tweek shook even harder, his eyes filling up with tears.

"Hey. Hey, don't cry. Why are you crying?"

"You're gonna kill me," Tweek whimpered, trying to hold the tears in his eyes, trying to be strong and not let them spill over. "You're really gonna kill me this time."

"Tweek..." Craig took a tiny step closer, and Tweek reacted.

He threw himself at Craig, possessed by a strength that wasn't his own, knocking the black-haired boy into the snow. He dug his fingernails into Craig's wrist, and Craig let go of the knife. Tweek snatched it up fast and scrambled to his feet, taking several steps backwards, away from Craig.

"N-now stay away from me," Tweek commanded, his eyes huge with panic and his breath coming in gasps. Craig sat up slowly, staring at the knife in Tweek's hands, then shifting his gaze to Tweek's eyes. He looked distraught.

"Tweek... Oh no, Tweek, don't do it, Tweek," Craig said, picking himself off the ground.

Tweek stared at him, suddenly confused. "What?"

"Tweek, please, _please _don't do anything to hurt yourself," Craig pleaded.

"Not this again," Tweek growled, clutching the knife tightly in his shaking hand. "I'm sick of you doing this to me, Craig—"

"Tweek, I'm serious," Craig said, his eyes begging and so, so blue. "I'm so serious, Tweek. Please put that knife down. _Please_."

"H-how can I trust you?" Tweek asked, his confidence faltering.

"I want to help you," Craig pleaded, taking half a step toward him. Tweek didn't move. "I'm so worried about you. I love you so much, Tweek."

Tweek's grip slackened on the knife. Craig took another tiny step closer.

"Put that down, Tweek," he coaxed.

Tweek shook his head.

"Please, Tweek."

"This... This isn't for hurting myself," Tweek told him, shaking harder than ever. "This is for protecting me from _you_."

"But Tweek," Craig said, boring holes through Tweek with his eyes, his voice strong and heavy and animated with emotion. "That's what _I'm _here for. All this time I've been saving you because I love you. I love you even though you don't understand, even though it kills me when you look at me like that—like just looking at me makes you sick. But I can't leave you alone. You're sick, Tweek, you're very, very sick in your brain but I want to help you. That's all I've ever wanted."

Tweek stared.

"I love you, Tweek. I love you so much."

Tweek dropped his arm but kept the knife in his violently shaking hand. He felt like a scared, starving animal being offered a bit of food. That was how he always felt—like a scared animal. And Craig was treating him like something special, something beautiful. Maybe he was just crazy. Maybe the instinctive waves of panic were always steering him the wrong way.

"Tweek," Craig whispered, gentle and reverent as if he'd just read Tweek's mind. Why did Craig always seem to _know_? Why did Craig always seem to understand?

_Because he loves me._

Tweek faltered, seized by a shockwave of sudden realization. Craig took the last step between them and wrapped his arms around Tweek, stunning the blond further into silence.

"Tweek," he breathed against Tweek's neck, stroking the blond's slender back. Tweek shivered. "I've been so worried about you."

Tweek was surprised to feel Craig's fingers unsteady, trembling as they ran along his spine. He found himself leaning into Craig but never, never putting down the carving knife. His messed up, sick, sick brain that Craig was trying to save him from wouldn't let him. Fear was still slinking through the back of his head, but the way Craig murmured his name over and over, adoring, loving, worshipping, made Tweek's tight nerves relax.

As Craig murmured, "Oh, Tweek...Tweek...Tweek, I love you so much," Tweek found himself trying something terrible, something that could save or ruin him.

He rested his head against Craig's shoulder and said, trying so hard to understand, "I love you too, Craig."

"Yes, Tweek, yes, yes, _yes_," Craig breathed, gripping him tighter.

Tweek wanted to die. He knew he didn't mean it, but Craig was so happy, so he bit his lip and slowly withdrew from Craig's arms, shivering in the cold.

"No," he said, aching to ease his conscience. "No, I really do. I think... I think maybe I really am sick in my head, I mean...one of us is crazy, Craig, and I thought it was you—I thought you were—nnh—always out to get me, but g-god, I'm the one on two medications and a gallon of caffeine all the time."

He stared at the ground. "I've been such an awful person for—for the past couple weeks, and I'm r-really, really sorry."

But you still chased me with a knife, he thought. You still scared the living hell out of me.

"Tweek...you finally understand." Craig looked happy, so genuinely happy. "Come on, let's go home, okay?"

Tweek nodded, still holding the knife. This was his now. This was for protecting himself just in case—just in case Craig really was out to get him. But the feel of Craig's arm slung around Tweek's shoulders set Tweek's mind at ease. No, no, no. Craig really did love him. Look how happy Craig was. Craig really did love him.

* * *

He loved Tweek.

Craig laughed, a giddy euphoric whoop of sheer _joy_. Every fiber of his being was engulfed in a sensory overload of happy energy—the feel of Tweek's warm shaking body under his arm, the slowly falling flakes of snow nesting in his hair, the pain in his frozen bare feet, the grind of scissors against his other hand in his pocket.

Craig laughed again, pulling Tweek closer. Tweek was his. Tweek loved him. He had won, and he hadn't even needed to kill Tweek to do it. He'd won. _Won_. He ground the scissor blades into his palm, cutting himself with the same blade he'd used to cut Tweek. It felt delicious, it felt as right as the arm looped around Tweek's shoulders.

He had won.


End file.
